


some things you just can't speak about

by cre8iveovadose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Injury, Cutting, Depressed Peter Parker, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cre8iveovadose/pseuds/cre8iveovadose
Summary: Sometimes it splashed, sometimes it just slid down the drain, but the fact that it was running out of him so smoothly was the most delectable feeling he’d experienced in months.And that was a dangerous way to be thinking.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112





	some things you just can't speak about

**Author's Note:**

> It’s December, which apparently means I need to write obscenely depressing fanfiction featuring Marvel characters. Since y’all loved my Peter fics last year, I thought I’d revisit him and continue my tradition of completely ignoring his healing factor :p Enjoy, but stay safe ‘cause this one is way graphic!

_“Only twenty minutes to sleep_  
 _But you dream of some epiphany_  
 _Just one single glimpse of relief_  
 _To make some sense of what you've seen...”_  
— epiphany, taylor swift

Peter Parker wrinkled his nose at the smell coming off his arm. He only remembered coming across the odour in one other place — the open-air shark tank at the aquarium they’d gone to on a field trip in elementary school. At the time, he’d thought the stench was uncleanliness. The murky water in the tank and the cloying scent in the air had turned his stomach and made him feel so ill that his teacher had rushed him through to the jellyfish exhibit, to the cool darkness where the graceful, illuminated blobs had bobbed before his eyes until he felt like himself again. 

But he understood now that the smell didn’t come from dirt or mess or grime or scum. It came from blood; the blood of the fish those sharks had devoured at feeding time and, now, the blood collecting in the sink where it dripped from his arm and stained his pale skin in violent scarlet. 

Peter flexed his fingers and watched more blood bubble up from the array of cuts up and down the length of his forearm. The ruby beads swelled like tears from the wounds before they slipped over his skin in icy rivers to drop into the basin with barely a whisper of a noise. Sometimes it splashed, sometimes it just slid down the drain, but the fact that it was running out of him so smoothly was the most delectable feeling he’d experienced in months.

And that was a dangerous way to be thinking.

There had been no reason for this relapse. No fright on patrol. No argument with Aunt May. No stress at school. He’d just been sitting on the floor of his room, the darkness wrapping its tendrils around his heart until he reached into the drawer of his nightstand for the pocketknife his father had given him for his tenth birthday. He hated using it for this but his best relapses always started with a knife, before he went back to his razorblades. 

Picking up the small sliver of silver again, Peter breathed deeply before he let himself tear a new array of cuts into his skin. The pain was bliss and the blood that followed in its wake was enough relief to make him sigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned his head back. The slight movement was enough to throw him off-balance and he realised he was dizzier than he’d thought. 

He was losing too much blood, doing this twice a day — though he was beyond caring. 

But Mr Stark would be here any minute to take him to the Avengers compound for the weekend. He couldn’t let Mr Stark find out what he was doing. 

Looking at his arm again, Peter watched, transfixed, as the rivulets of blood collected in dark globs and strings that snaked over his skin, sticking to it. Fresher blood kept running down, like dew drops on spider webs, and he wondered how he could possibly stop this brutal ballet. His eyes flicked to the dressing on the counter beside him but he couldn’t bear to cover this up yet. 

He couldn’t ruin it.

He needed more. 

Quickly cleaning off the blade on a baby wipe, Peter planted his feet and laid his arm down directly on the countertop. He could clean up the mess after he’d done his damage. 

The blood already on his arm squelched between his skin and the bench but he pushed the sensation from his mind as he ran the blade over his skin again. Hot, thick lines of blood poured out of him and pooled around his arm. He was careful not to let it drip onto the wooden floor but he was beginning to lose his head as the blade kept slicing through him. 

Peter couldn’t figure out what it was that satisfied him, in the end, but when his arm was sufficiently aching and the amount of blood on the counter was enough to make a crime scene blush, he dropped the razor into the sink and gathered a handful of baby wipes from the pack to start mopping up his arm. 

Even as he wiped away the run-off, more blood dripped in an ebb and flow he’d never experienced before. When the mess on his arm was tamed enough for a dressing and a bandage, Peter quickly applied them, wrapping the bandage a little too tight, before he tugged the sleeve of his hoodie down from his elbow. 

Lowering his arm, he felt like someone was trying to break his wrist. The pain was suffocating and his vision blurred dangerously. Peter gripped the counter, clinging to consciousness until the rush of blood he’d released from the almost-tourniquet provided by his sleeve cuff found equilibrium. He took a few deep breaths before he continued his clean up, nursing his battered arm against his stomach. 

It took too many baby wipes plus an extra wad of tissues to clean up the lake of blood on the counter and washing the remaining blood out of the sink sent waves of nausea rolling through him. But soon enough, the bathroom was back to normal and Peter knew Aunt May would never suspect what had happened when she came back from work. 

Padding back down the hall to his bedroom, Peter let his shoulder drag along the wall in case he lost his balance again. There was a pounding in his head over his right ear but he pressed on, gathering the last things he’d need to take with him to the compound. He’d already packed blades, dressings and bandages; too many for just a weekend but enough to be safe rather than sorry. 

The clock on his desk told him there were another twenty minutes before Mr Stark would arrive which meant his time allowance of an hour had been enough to cushion his impulses for more cuts, for more blood. There was even time for a snack to raise his blood sugar again.

Peter zipped up his overnight bag and dragged it by the shoulder strap along the floor to the living room. He left the bag by the front door and shoved his feet into his shoes without bothering to tie the laces before he went into the kitchen. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, creating just enough of a sling to keep the throbbing at bay though there was still an unusual warmth where the wounds still bled into the dressing. 

He was halfway through an apple when Mr Stark knocked “Shave and a Haircut” on the front door. Peter’s legs felt a little shaky as he went to answer the door, having to sink his teeth into the apple and hold it there while he opened the door with his good hand. He hoped it would come off as silly rather than suspicious. 

“Hey, kid, what’s shaking?” Tony Stark said as he strode into the apartment, one hand in his pocket and his sunglasses low on his nose. He surveyed the room in a slow, clumsy circle before he settled his eyes on Peter. 

“Not much,” Peter said, wiping apple juice from his chin. Though there was a definite tremble in his fingers where they held onto the apple. 

“Got your stuff? I have four 3D printers running back at the lab so we can’t linger.” 

“Just here,” Peter said, leaning over to pick up his bag. Blood rushed to his head when he bent down and rushed out again when he stood up. 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

“Mhmm.” Peter nodded, his eyes closed, before he forced a smile. “Just tired. Up late on patrol last night.” 

“You can sleep in the car. Come on.” 

Tony turned on his heel and walked out first, Peter tossing the remains of his apple into the trash before pulling the apartment door shut behind them. Taking the stairs made his heart thump uncomfortably in his chest but he made it down without giving himself away. All he had to do was sit in the car for an hour or two now. He could manage that. 

Happy was leaning against the car when they walked onto the street. He craned his neck to see if May was following them and Peter caught the look of disappointment that passed over his face before he straightened up. He nodded to Tony as he opened the back door before he smiled at Peter. 

“Hey, kid, how’re you doing?”

“I’m good,” Peter said. “Aunt May says hi.” She hadn’t, though.

Happy smiled down at the ground before he lifted the bag from Peter’s shoulder. “Lemme take this.” 

Peter sunk into the back seat of the car, reaching across with his right hand to pull the seatbelt over his left shoulder. Tony was already busy tapping away at his phone even though his sunglasses were still on. Taking advantage of his state of distraction, Peter adjusted his left sleeve and used it to move his leaden arm into a comfortable position in his lap. 

Once Happy had deposited Peter’s bag in the trunk and climbed back into the driver’s seat, they were headed for the compound. They wove through the streets of Queens to the highway and out towards the countryside. 

Peter’s head lolled a little too much against the headrest and his heart was beating a little too fast but his mind was clouding over. He couldn’t focus on all the things he needed to do to keep up his façade. His ears were starting to ring. 

“You’ve never been this quiet, kid,” Tony said, finally tucking his phone back into his pocket. “You haven’t got any Lego projects to brag about or tales of derring-do from the mean streets of Queens?” 

“Not really,” Peter said, not lifting his head. “Just normal stuff, Mr Stark.” 

“Such as?”

Peter let his mouth hang open as if he was formulating an answer when the car lurched over a pothole. His arm jostled and he bit back a cry of pain before a strong swell of nausea turned his stomach. 

“Woah, kid, you don’t look right,” Tony said. “Happy, find somewhere to pull over. Parker looks like he’s about to puke.” 

Peter clenched his eyes shut and tried to ignore the noise of Tony’s voice but his head was swimming. He could smell the blood on his arm. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. 

The car skidded to a halt and the driver’s door slammed open and shut before Happy was helping Peter out onto the side of the country road they’d been speeding along. Leaning on his right arm, Peter wretched again and again but nothing came up. He could hear one of them searching for something in the car before a tissue was wiped over his forehead, collecting sweat he hadn’t realised was there. 

“You’re going cold, Parker,” Tony said, crouching beside him. “Were you feeling sick before we came to get you?” 

He shook his head, not looking up. “Nope, Mr Stark. I felt fine.” 

“Try some deep breaths,” Tony murmured, reaching out to rub a hand over Peter’s back. 

Pouring all his attention into his lungs, Peter tried to breathe as slow and deep as he could but his body wanted more air. His heart ached now, the pain spreading out across his chest and into his back. He tried to flex the fingers on his left hand but the slight movement made him whimper in pain. 

“What is it, kid? What can we do?” 

Peter shook his head again, closing his eyes against the noise. “C-Can’t — breathe.”

“Come on, Peter, just try. In and out.” 

Happy cleared his throat. “Boss?” 

“What?”

“Sir, I think he’s bleeding out.” 

Peter’s eyes shot open and he looked down at his arm to see streaks of red dripping over the palm of his hand. Patches of the sleeve were dark but when he tried to reach out to feel for the blood, he collapsed against Tony. 

“Kid, what did you do?”

Peter looked up at him, tears brimming in his eyes, but could only shake his head. There were some things he just can’t speak about.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, that smarts, doesn’t it? I promise Peter doesn’t die but I wanted to leave it a lil mysterious. Thank you for reading, lovelies <3


End file.
